Friday, March 08, 2013
Somebody is missing Paris
One moment I was okay and the next I just wasn't.
When I say I wasn't okay, I am not referring to being about to keel over and die or anything like that.
I simply mean that life and the stress that goes right along with it, seemed as if it were trying to eat me up, swallow me whole, or at least bully me into submission.
I submitted, alright. Or should I say retreated, like a turtle who pulls his head and legs as far into its shell, the house it wears, like a jacket on its back, can retreat. That is to say, I've been hiding. Hiding from myself. Hiding from my children. Hiding from the world.
Not sure why. Some call it depression. But that is such an unsatisfying explanation for such a complex human reaction. What is it really?
Explaining my absence was not my motivation for writing this post, though. I started this post to show you that one particular young girl in this house, I will not name names, has been pining for a city she has only ever spent about three or four , or maybe five days of her short life walking around.
She longs for Paris, or at least she longs for her memories of our former life when we could get to Paris on a train, boarded in the darkest of morning hours on the outskirts of a village so quiet and lonely it seemed to ache out loud, in less than two hours.
I miss that too.
And she longs for the feeling she got in Paris, the feeling that life was full of infinite and unexpected beauty, that sources of creativity were lurking around ever corner if you only opened your eyes, nose, ears, and mind to them.
And, mostly, she misses the constant reminder that civilization, and, more important still, artists existed such a great long time before she ever arrived herself, and those artists likely roamed the very same streets and saw the very same perfection and experienced that very same sense of creative inspiration as she, a nine year old girl, experienced. When she was in Paris.
And she's been expressing that longing, with her paint brush.